Just For Fun

As a junior in high school, way back in 1967 when T Rexes still roamed the hallways checking restroom passes, I wanted to take a class in the industrial arts department. No way, I was told; those classes were only for boys. I should stick to the girls-only home economics department.

This was during the early days of what’s now called the Women’s Movement—which hadn’t yet moved very far. True, we were the first generation to have the birth control pill. True, we saw the passage of Title Nine that mandated equal opportunities for girls in school sports. And we pioneered the miniskirt. (Before any grandmother rolls her eyes over how short girls’ skirts are today, she should look back at one of her own high school or college yearbooks.)

Still, doctors, lawyers, and engineers were mostly men. Nurses, secretaries, and elementary teachers were mostly women. Girls were encouraged to excel—up to a point. Only as long as they didn’t outshine the boys who were expected to be the real future leaders.

Instead, girls were taught, indirectly but very clearly, to be “nice.” Nice girls did not speak up with strong opinions, did not challenge authority figures, and were not “pushy” or “bossy.” They were pleasant, obedient, quiet, helpful, and in the background.

This sort of niceness is not the same as being kind. Kindness is essential for being a good and successful human being. It comes from a place of confidence, wholeness, and strength. “Nice girl” niceness, on the other hand, comes from a place of needing to placate others because you feel powerless, inferior, or afraid. In my opinion, it was and still is one of the most harmful behaviors taught to girls.

Here’s one reason why—a true story from my junior year of high school in Gregory, South Dakota. (I have changed the names, though; you never know which classmates might pop up on social media.)

At Easter, the United Methodist Church youth group organized a midnight Good Friday service. Three of us—Connie and I, who were juniors, and Linda, who was a senior—were in charge of setting up. We met at the church around 9:00 p.m., got everything ready, and then walked downtown. Connie was eager to find some excitement. Linda was up for some fun. I would rather not have gone along, but I wasn’t going to hang out at the church by myself, either.

We ended up getting into a car with two senior boys. Dave, the driver, had been drinking. Tim, in the passenger seat with his guitar, was clearly drunk. We drove around for a while, stopping to talk to kids in other cars—which was the thing to do on weekend nights in small towns like Gregory. Tim strummed chords on his guitar and amused himself by making up a song about “midnight Mass.” Connie chattered and laughed and was having a great time. Linda seemed to be enjoying herself. I sat awkwardly in my corner of the back seat, not saying a word, wishing I were somewhere else.

That wish got even stronger when Dave and the driver of another car decided to head out north of town and have a race.

Highway 47, north of Gregory, is a two-lane road that goes through the western edge of the Missouri River breaks. It’s something of a prairie rollercoaster, with a series of deep rolling hills and valleys. Visibility is limited, and passing another vehicle can be a challenge even during the day.

I knew exactly how idiotic it would be for two cars, at night, with impaired drivers, to speed along that road in both lanes. I was terrified. And what did I do? Nothing. I didn’t protest. I didn’t try to talk them out of it. I didn’t speak up and say something like, “Fine, but take me back to the church first.” The guys were both seniors; I was a junior. They were cool and popular; I was a shy, awkward nerd. And of the five people in the car, it appeared to me that I was the only one who didn’t want to do this stupid thing.

We drove a few miles out of town on Highway 47. The two drivers lined up side by side and revved their engines. Somebody said “Go!” And we were off.

Connie was shrieking with excitement. Linda was quiet. I was barely managing to breathe. Then I realized Linda was gripping my hand as hard as I was squeezing hers. It was my first clue that maybe I wasn’t the only one who was scared.

Finally, after an eternity that couldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes, Linda spoke up. I don’t remember what she said, but it was enough to get Dave to slow down. He made a U-turn in the middle of the road and headed sedately back to town. The boys dropped us off at the church. We went in, finished getting ready, and dutifully led our Good Friday service. I hope I did so in a spirit of profound gratitude.

Because all it would have taken was one car coming from the opposite direction, one deer in the middle of the road, one blown tire, or one tiny misjudgment. And any or all five of us in that car could have died.

Including me—who did not drink, did not party, did not take risks, and did not want to be in that car. But who was in that car just like everyone else. Because I did not know how to speak up and say no. I had no clue that, if I had, Linda very likely would have backed me. As the shy introvert that I was, plus the nice girl I had been taught to be, I had neither the tools nor the confidence to take basic, life-protecting care of myself and my friends.

So my message to you—my granddaughters, and your friends, and young women everywhere—is  that yes, kindness matters. Please do be kind, with strength and confidence. And also remember to be kind and strong for yourself. Because being kind helps make you a good and successful human. But being nice could get you killed.

This week I’ll observe—if not exactly “celebrate”—my 70th birthday. It’s one of those milestones that prompts unappreciated comparisons to certain large extinct reptiles and not-so-smart remarks about being “over the hill.”

So let me tell you a true “over the hill” story.

The distance from Raton, NM, to Trinidad, CO, is 25 miles. Driving those miles on Interstate 25 means climbing the long, steep, curving grade through Raton Pass and descending the even longer, steeper, curving grade to Trinidad. In April of 2002, my husband Wayne and I drove through Raton Pass on our way home from a three-month construction job in Arizona. He was driving a semi. I was driving a one-ton pickup, pulling a 30-foot fifth wheel camper. He had to stop with the truck at the port of entry near Raton, so I went on ahead over the pass.

This trip was only the third time I had towed the camper and the first time I had driven it in mountains. My training for this experience consisted of two pieces of advice. One, slow down with your gears, not your brakes. Two, the lowest gear you need to shift down to when you’re going up a steep grade is the same gear you should use when you go down.

Thus prepared, I drove up and up, shifting down and down until I ran out of gears. I tried to ignore all the other vehicles passing me as I climbed more and more slowly, until I finally topped the pass. Now came the truly terrifying part—going down the other side. I kept reminding myself to slow with my gears. Occasionally I had to remind myself to breathe. But all in all, it wasn’t too bad. I made it safely all the way down, all the way through Trinidad, and out onto the prairie on the other side, feeling greatly relieved and somewhat close to competent.

That feeling lasted until Wayne came up behind me a few miles later, called on the radio, and told me to pull over and stop. Which was when I learned that I had driven through Raton Pass with no brakes on the trailer. He had disconnected them to save the battery when we stopped for the night and forgot to reconnect them.

Had I known I had no trailer brakes on that long steep grade, I would have panicked. Since I didn’t know, I just kept driving innocently along, with no clue that my confidence in my equipment was misplaced. I just kept following the only instructions I had–which, fortunately, turned out to be quite applicable to the situation. I was also lucky. It’s the most vivid demonstration I’ve ever experienced of the saying, “Ignorance is bliss.”

At the time, I was also ignorant of many other things. I didn’t know that, six months later, Wayne would be killed in a plane crash. I didn’t know that I would eventually find another happy relationship that would also end in sorrow. I didn’t know about the family weddings, the births of grandchildren, and all the other joyful and painful life events and changes still to come.

In the years since, traveling all the unexpected curves and steep grades that shape a life, I’ve left behind the luxury of living in ignorant bliss. I now understand that all of us are mostly muddling our way along with insufficient information and incomplete instructions. At times, we’re all driving through difficult terrain with no brakes. Sometimes we know it and sometimes we don’t. Sometimes we’re lucky and sometimes we aren’t. Either way, about all we can do is keep on going.

Even when we flinch at milestones that loom up along our roads much faster than we could possibly have expected—like birthdays that make it impossible to pretend we don’t qualify for the senior discount. Birthdays that make clear life is apt to be mostly downhill from here on, and the brakes wore out several hills back. It’s a challenge to accept that knowledge without panicking. It’s another challenge to figure out the “how” of navigating that road.

I’m still working on both. But a few weeks ago, I encountered a bit of wisdom that I intend to rely on as I go forward. I know it’s deep and profound, because I saw it on a bumper sticker.

On one side was an image of a Buddha-like figure sitting serenely in the lotus position. On the other side were six words. At the top: “Do No Harm.” Below that: “Take No Shit.”

That’s it. That’s my new life plan.

First, to “Do no harm.” Because there is already more than enough pain in the world without my adding to it. I never know what hardships and heartaches other people may be facing. I never know when someone else is driving with no brakes. It’s my responsibility to be accepting of and respectful to those around me.

Second, to realize that “Do no harm” is meaningless without its flip side: “Take no shit.” “Do no harm” is not the same as “let people run over you.” Accepting others is not the same as accepting unacceptable behavior from those who are mean or careless. One of the people entitled to be treated with respect is me.

If, at age 70 and beyond, you can’t speak up for yourself, stand up for what matters, and say what you really think—then when are you going to do it? At this point, what is there to lose? Not having a lot to lose is a powerful place to be.

Heading downhill with no brakes? One word for that is “terrifying.” A better one is “unstoppable.”

Nobody moved midnight, really. It’s still where it’s always been, right there in the dark between 11:59 p.m. and 12:01 a.m. Just as noon is where it’s always been, right there in the middle of the day at lunchtime. (Or right after lunchtime, for those of us who wake up ready for breakfast at 5:00 a.m. and are consequently ready for lunch by 11:15. We’re the same people who have to take midnight on faith, because we haven’t seen it in person since New Year’s Eve at the beginning of the current millennium.)

But in recent years, somebody has been messing with 12:00 o’clock. Instead of the clear and simple designations of noon and midnight, I’m noticing more and more references to 12:00 a.m. or 12:00 p.m.

This usage is confusing. Does 12:00 a.m. mean noon and 12:00 p.m. mean midnight? Or is 12:00 a.m. midnight while 12:00 p.m. is noon? Depending on what you see as the starting point for the 12-hour clock, you could make a case for either one.

And in either case, you would be illogical and incorrect. For the same reason the weather app on my phone was illogical and incorrect the other morning when it informed me that the outside temperature was “minus zero” degrees.

No, it wasn’t. Zero is neither plus nor minus. It is the dividing line between plus and minus. Like an impartial referee, it doesn’t get to take sides.

When it comes to clocks, 12:00 is equivalent to zero. Noon and midnight cannot be a.m. or p.m.; they are the dividing lines between a.m. and p.m. The terms are abbreviations for ante meridiem, (before midday) and post meridiem (after midday). Midday—aka noon—cannot be before or after itself.

Who can we blame this misusage on? Computers, of course. Because digital devices, bless their little one-or-zero hearts, get confused by things that are neither one nor the other. They don’t want to have to deal with the neutral second in between a.m. and p.m. or the neutral zero in between minus and plus.

My phone and my computer claim that noon is 12:00 p.m. and midnight is 12:00 a.m. (So, by the way, does the style guide for the United States Printing Office.) My relatively ancient clock radio also believes midnight is 12:00 a.m., a fact of which I was unpleasantly reminded last night when the alarm that I believed I had set for 5:00 a.m. shrilled at midnight.

Both my microwave and my stove avoid the issue altogether. Possibly they assume users will be able to tell the difference between a.m. or p.m. based on whether they’re scrambling eggs, steaming broccoli, or making popcorn.

I don’t know what the clock in my new car thinks. According to the manual, I can set the clock to either a 12-hour or a 24-hour format and also set it to remind me of birthdays and anniversaries. As if I’m going to attempt that; I just barely know which of the numbers on the intimidating dashboard display is the time. Learning how to set the clock can wait until after I’ve managed to figure out how to adjust the heat, defrost the windshield, and unlock the passenger doors.  

Are noon and midnight lost to us forever? Are they, like sundials and clocks with hands and faces, to be inevitably ground to extinction by the relentless jaws of technology? Not necessarily. That same technology, at this point, is probably sophisticated enough to easily be programmed to show 12:00 as midnight and noon rather than a.m. and p.m. Or we could sidestep the whole issue by switching to the much more logical 24-hour clock. (Not a likely solution any time soon, given our country’s persistent resistance to the metric system used by much of the rest of the world.)

For now, we’re stuck between the midnight/noon logic of human beings and the a.m./p.m. logic of computers. When dealing with digital devices, it’s a good idea to mind their p’s and a’s and figure out which applies to the middle of the day and which to the middle of the night. When dealing with human beings, it’s an even better idea—no matter what your digital devices say—to be clear about whether you mean noon or midnight.

If, for example, you schedule a top-secret assignation in an unfrequented corner of the park for 12:00 p.m., you’d better specify that you mean noon, not midnight. Otherwise your clandestine compatriot could be left in the dark for hours, standing behind a tree clutching a fading pink carnation and a copy of War and Peace, waiting in vain for the secret code.

P.S. Remember to “fall back” this weekend, since Daylight Saving Time ends November 1. At 2:00 a.m., to be precise. (Years ago, my father joked to a group of friends that the thing he hated about DST was staying up till 2:00 a.m. to change the clocks. A woman apparently lacking a sense of humor assured him solemnly that it was perfectly okay to just change the clocks before he went to bed.) But whether you adjust your clocks on October 31 at bedtime or on November 1 either  at 2:00 a.m. or after you’ve realized why you’re at church an hour early, don’t worry too much about your digital devices. They can reset themselves.  

It has been pointed out that everything Fred Astaire did on the dance floor, Ginger Rogers did too—backwards and in high heels.

I was reminded of this recently, watching one of my granddaughters not long before her third birthday. In a pretty pink dress, she was riding her little pink princessy scooter. Not in high heels, of course. In bare feet, with nail polish on each rather grubby toe.

Starting in the driveway, she would charge uphill on the sidewalk—more a slight slope than a steep rise, but uphill nevertheless—driving the scooter as hard as one hard-working little foot could make it go. At the end of the street she would turn, perch on the scooter, and hurtle back downhill. Grinning with glee, her hair and skirt flying, she would go faster and faster, then swerve at the last minute and screech to a halt just before she ran into the mailbox. More Evel Knievel, perhaps, than Ginger Rogers.

Being dressed like a little lady only proved to be a problem once. When she crouched low on the scooter on one of her runs, no doubt trying for maximum acceleration, the back of her skirt wound itself up in the back wheel. She couldn’t stand up until she was untangled by the combined efforts of Mom and Dad.

Who didn’t tell her to slow down, to be careful, to not be so wild, or in any other way to “play like a girl.” They merely suggested that, if she wanted to sit down on the scooter, shorts might be more practical than a skirt. As soon as she was extricated, she took off up the hill to make another run—standing up that time.

It is gratifying to see little girls like my granddaughters growing up in a world where being “girly”—enjoying prettiness and dressing up and all the femininity those things imply—is completely compatible with being strong, playing hard, and taking risks. As well as dealing with and learning from the scrapes and bruises that sometimes result.

What Ginger Rogers did in high heels was certainly impressive. Just think what she might have been able to do in bare feet. With or without nail polish.